by E. L. James
“You need a haircut,” I mutter. Turning away from him, I step into the elevator.
“Do I?” he says while brushing his hair off his forehead. He follows me in.
“Yes.” I tap the code for our apartment into the keypad.
“So you’re talking to me now?”
“Just.”
“What exactly are you mad about? I need an indication,” he asks cautiously.
I turn and gape at him.
“Do you really have no idea? Surely, for someone so bright, you must have an inkling? I can’t believe you’re that obtuse.”
He takes an alarmed step back. “You really are mad. I thought we had sorted all this in your office,” he murmurs, perplexed.
“Christian, I just capitulated to your petulant demands. That’s all.”
The elevator doors open and I storm out. Taylor is standing in the hallway. He takes a step back and quickly shuts his mouth as I steam past him.
“Hi, Taylor,” I mutter.
“Mrs. Grey,” he murmurs.
Dropping my briefcase in the hallway, I head into the great room. Mrs. Jones is at the stove.
“Good evening, Mrs. Grey.”
“Hi, Mrs. Jones,” I mutter once more. I head straight to the fridge and pull out a bottle of white wine. Christian follows me into the kitchen and watches me like a hawk as I take a glass down from the cupboard. He removes his jacket and casually places it on the countertop.
“Do you want a drink?” I ask super sweetly.
“No thanks,” he says, not taking his eyes off me, and I know that he’s helpless. He does not know what to do with me. It’s comical on one level and tragic on another. Well, screw him! I am having trouble locating my compassionate self since our meeting this afternoon. Slowly, he removes his tie then opens the top button of his shirt. I pour myself a large glass of sauvignon blanc, and Christian runs a hand through his hair. When I turn around, Mrs. Jones has disappeared. Shit! She’s my human shield. I take a slug of wine. Hmm. It tastes good.
“Stop this,” Christian whispers. He takes the two steps between us so he’s standing in front of me. Gently he tucks my hair behind my ear and caresses my earlobe with his fingertips, sending a shiver through me. Is this what I’ve missed all day? His touch? I shake my head, causing him to release my ear and gaze up at him.
“Talk to me,” he murmurs.
“What’s the point? You don’t listen to me.”
“Yes I do. You’re one of the few people I do listen to.”
I take another swig of wine.
“Is this about your name?”
“Yes and no. It’s how you dealt with the fact that I disagreed with you.” I glare up at him, expecting him to be angered.
His brow furrows. “Ana, you know I have . . . issues. It’s hard for me to let go where you’re concerned. You know that.”
“But I’m not a child, and I’m not an asset.”
“I know.” He sighs.
“Then stop treating me as though I am,” I whisper, imploring him.
He brushes the back of his fingers down my cheek and runs the tip of his thumb across my bottom lip.
“Don’t be mad. You’re so precious to me. Like a priceless asset, like a child,” he whispers, a somber reverent expression on his face. His words distract me. Like a child. Precious like a child . . . a child would be precious to him!
“I’m neither of those things, Christian. I’m your wife. If you were hurt that I wasn’t going to take your name, you should have said.”
“Hurt?” He frowns deeply, and I know that he’s exploring the possibility in his mind. He straightens suddenly, still frowning, and glances quickly at his wristwatch. “The architect will be here in just under an hour. We should eat.”
Oh no. I groan inwardly. He hasn’t answered me, and now I have to deal with Gia Matteo. My shitty day just got shittier. I scowl at Christian.
“This discussion isn’t finished,” I mutter.
“What else is there to discuss?”
“You could sell the company.”
Christian snorts. “Sell it?”
“Yes.”
“You think I’d find a buyer in today’s market?”
“How much did it cost you?”
“It was relatively cheap.” His tone is guarded.
“So if it folds?”
He smirks. “We’ll survive. But I won’t let it fold, Anastasia. Not while you’re there.”
“And if I leave?”
“And do what?”
“I don’t know. Something else.”
“You’ve already said this is your dream job. And forgive me if I’m wrong, but I promised before God, Reverend Walsh, and a congregation of our nearest and dearest to cherish you, uphold your hopes and dreams, and keep you safe at my side.”
“Quoting your wedding vows to me is not playing fair.”
“I’ve never promised to play fair where you’re concerned. Besides,” he adds, “you’ve wielded your vows at me like a weapon before.”
I scowl at him. This is true.
“Anastasia, if you’re still angry with me, take it out on me in bed later.” His voice is suddenly low and full of sensual longing, his eyes heated.
What? Bed? How?
He smiles indulgently down at my expression. Is he expecting me to tie him up? Holy crap! My inner goddess removes her iPod earbuds and starts listening with rapt attention.
“Seven shades of Sunday,” he whispers. “Looking forward to it.”
Whoa!
“Gail!” he shouts abruptly, and four seconds later, Mrs. Jones appears. Where was she? Taylor’s office? Listening? Oh jeez.
“Mr. Grey?”
“We’d like to eat now, please.”
“Very good, sir.”
Christian doesn’t take his eyes off me. He watches me vigilantly as if I’m some exotic creature about to bolt. I take a sip of my wine.
“I think I’ll join you in a glass,” he says, sighing, and runs a hand through his hair again.
“You’re not going to finish?”
“No.” I gaze down at my barely touched plate of fettuccini to avoid Christian’s darkening expression. Before he can say anything, I stand and clear our plates from the dining table.
“Gia will be with us shortly,” I mutter. Christian’s mouth twists in an unhappy scowl, but he says nothing.
“I’ll take those, Mrs. Grey,” says Mrs. Jones as I walk into the kitchen.
“Thank you.”
“You didn’t like it?” she asks, concerned.
“It was fine. I’m just not hungry.”
Giving me a small sympathetic smile, she turns to clear my plate and put everything in the dishwasher.
“I’m going to make a couple of calls,” Christian announces, giving me an assessing look before he disappears into his study.
I let out a sigh of relief and head to our bedroom. Dinner was awkward. I’m still mad at Christian, and he doesn’t seem to think he’s done anything wrong. Has he? My subconscious cocks an eyebrow at me and gazes benignly over her half-moon glasses. Yes, he has. He’s made it even more awkward for me at work. He didn’t wait to discuss this issue with me when we were in the relative privacy of our own home. How would he feel if I came barging into his office, laying down the law? And to cap it all, he wants to give me SIP! How the hell could I run a company? I know next to nothing about business.
I gaze out at the Seattle skyline bathed in the pearly pink light of dusk. And as usual, he wants to solve our differences in the bedroom . . . um . . . foyer . . . playroom . . . TV room . . . kitchen countertop . . . Stop! It always comes back to sex with him. Sex is his coping mechanism.
I wander into the bathroom and scowl at my reflection in the mirror. Coming back to the real world is hard. We managed to skate over all our differences while we were in our bubble because we were so wrapped up in each other. But now? Briefly I am dragged back to my wedding, remembering my concerns that day—marry in haste .
. . No, I mustn’t think like this. I knew he was Fifty Shades when I married him. I just have to hang in there and try to talk this through with him.
I squint at myself in the mirror. I look pale, and now I have that woman to deal with.
I’m wearing my gray pencil skirt and a sleeveless blouse. Right! My inner goddess gets out her harlot-red nail polish. I undo two buttons, exposing a little cleavage. I wash my face then carefully redo my makeup, applying more mascara than usual and putting extra gloss on my lips. Bending down, I then brush my hair vigorously from root to tip. When I stand, my hair is a chestnut haze around me that tumbles to my breasts. I tuck it artfully behind my ears and go in search of my pumps, rather than my flats.
When I reemerge into the great room, Christian has the house plans spread out on the dining table. He has music playing through the sound system. It stops me in my tracks.
“Mrs. Grey,” he says warmly then looks quizzically at me.
“What’s this?” I ask. The music is stunning.
“Fauré’s Requiem. You look different,” he says, distracted.
“Oh. I’ve not heard it before.”
“It’s very calming, relaxing,” he says and raises an eyebrow. “Have you done something to your hair?”
“Brushed it,” I mutter. I’m transported by the haunting voices. Abandoning the plans on the table, he walks toward me, a slow saunter in time to the music.
“Dance with me?” he murmurs.
“To this? It’s a requiem.” I squeak, shocked.
“Yes.” He pulls me into his arms and holds me, burying his nose in my hair and swaying gently from side to side. He smells his heavenly self.
Oh . . . I’ve missed him. I wrap my arms around him and fight the urge to cry. Why are you so infuriating?
“I hate fighting with you,” he whispers.
“Well, stop being such an arse.”
He chuckles and the captivating sound reverberates through his chest. He tightens his hold on me. “Arse?”
“Ass.”
“I prefer arse.”
“You should. It suits you.”
He laughs once more and kisses the top of my head.
“A requiem?” I murmur a little shocked that we are dancing to it.
He shrugs. “It’s just a lovely piece of music, Ana.”
Taylor coughs discreetly at the entranceway, and Christian releases me.
“Miss Matteo is here,” he says.
Oh joy!
“Show her in,” Christian says. He reaches over and clasps my hand as Miss Gia Matteo enters the room.
Gia Matteo is a good-looking woman—a tall, good-looking woman. She wears her short, salon-blond, perfectly layered and coiffed hair like a sophisticated crown. She’s dressed in a pale gray pantsuit; the slacks and fitted jacket hug her lush curves. Her clothes look expensive. At the base of her throat, a solitary diamond glints, matching the single-carat studs in her ears. She is well groomed—one of those women who grew up with money and breeding, though her breeding seems to be lacking this evening; her pale blue blouse is undone too far. Like mine. I flush.
“Christian. Ana.” She beams, showing perfect white teeth, and holds out a manicured hand to shake first Christian’s, then my hand. It means I have to release Christian’s hand to reciprocate. She’s a fraction shorter than Christian, but then she’s in killer heels.
“Gia,” Christian says politely. I smile coolly.
“You both look so well after your honeymoon,” she says smoothly, her brown eyes gazing at Christian through long mascaraed lashes. Christian puts his arm around me, holding me close.
“We had a wonderful time, thank you.” He brushes his lips against my temple, taking me by surprise.
See . . . he’s mine. Annoying—infuriating, even—but mine. I grin. Right now I really love you, Christian Grey. I slip my hand around his waist then into his rear pocket of his pants and squeeze his behind. Gia gives us a thin smile.
“Have you managed to look over the plans?”
“We have,” I murmur. I gaze up at Christian, who grins down at me, one eyebrow raised in wry amusement. Amused at what? My reaction to Gia or me squeezing his butt?
“Please,” Christian says. “The plans are here.” He gestures toward the dining table. Taking my hand, he leads me to it, Gia following in our wake. I finally remember my manners.
“Would you like something to drink?” I ask. “A glass of wine?”
“That would be lovely,” Gia says. “Dry white if you have it.”
Shit! Sauvignon blanc—that’s a dry white, isn’t it? Reluctantly leaving my husband’s side, I head over to the kitchen. I hear the iPod hiss as Christian switches off the music.
“Would you like some more wine, Christian?” I call.
“Please, baby,” he croons, grinning at me. Wow, he can be so swoonworthy at times yet so aggravating at others.
Reaching up to open the cupboard, I’m aware his eyes are on me, and I’m gripped by the uncanny feeling that Christian and I are putting on a show, playing a game together—but this time we’re on the same side pitted against Ms. Matteo. Does he know that she’s attracted to him and is being too obvious about it? It gives me a small rush of pleasure when I realize maybe he’s trying to reassure me. Or maybe he’s just sending a message loud and clear to this woman that he’s taken.
Mine. Yeah, bitch—mine. My inner goddess is wearing her gladiatrix outfit, and she’s taking no prisoners. Smiling to myself I collect three glasses from the cupboard, take the opened bottle of sauvignon blanc from the fridge, and place them all on the breakfast bar. Gia is leaning over the table while Christian stands beside her and points at something on the plans.
“I think Ana has some opinions on the glass wall, but generally we’re both pleased with the ideas you’ve come up with.”
“Oh, I’m glad,” Gia gushes, obviously relieved, and as she says it, she briefly touches his arm in a small, flirty gesture. Christian stiffens immediately but subtly. She doesn’t even seem to notice.
Leave him the fuck alone, lady. He doesn’t like to be touched.
Stepping casually aside so he’s out of her reach, Christian turns to me. “Thirsty here,” he says.
“Coming right up.” He is playing the game. She makes him uncomfortable. Why didn’t I see that before? That’s why I don’t like her. He’s used to how women react to him. I’ve seen it often enough, and usually he thinks nothing of it. Touching is something else. Well, Mrs. Grey to the rescue.
I hastily pour the wine, gather all three glasses in my hands, and hurry back to my knight in distress. Offering a glass to Gia, I deliberately position myself between them. She smiles courteously as she accepts it. I hand the second to Christian, who takes it eagerly, his expression one of amused gratitude.
“Cheers,” Christian says to us both, but looking at me. Gia and I raise our glasses and answer in unison. I take a welcome sip of wine.
“Ana, you have some issues with the glass wall?” Gia asks.
“Yes. I love it—don’t get me wrong. But I was hoping that we could incorporate it more organically into the house. After all, I fell in love with the house as it was, and I don’t want to make any radical changes.”
“I see.”
“I just want the design to be sympathetic, you know . . . more in keeping with the original house.” I glance up at Christian, who is gazing at me thoughtfully.
“No major renovations?” he murmurs.
“No.” I shake my head to emphasize my point.
“You like it as it is?”
“Mostly, yes. I always knew it just needed some TLC.”
Christian’s eyes glow warmly.
Gia glances at the pair of us, and her cheeks pink. “Okay,” she says. “I think I get where you’re coming from, Ana. How about if we retain the glass wall, but have it open out onto a larger deck that’s in keeping with the Mediterranean style. We have the stone terrace there already. We can put in pillars in matching stone,
widely spaced so you’ll still have the view. Add a glass roof, or tile it as per the rest of the house. It’ll also make a sheltered al fresco dining and seated area.”
Got to give the woman her due . . . she’s good.
“Or instead of the deck, we could incorporate a wood color of your choice into the glass doors—that might help to keep the Mediterranean spirit,” she continues.
“Like the bright blue shutters in the South of France,” I murmur to Christian, who is watching me intently. He takes a sip of wine and shrugs, very noncommittal. Hmm. He doesn’t like that idea but he doesn’t overrule me, shoot me down, or make me feel stupid. God, this man is a mass of contradictions. His words from yesterday come to mind: “I want this house to be the way you want. Whatever you want. It’s yours.” He wants me to be happy—happy in everything I do. Deep down I think I know this. It’s just—I stop myself. Don’t think about our argument now. My subconscious glares at me.
Gia is looking at Christian, waiting for him to make the decision. I watch as her pupils dilate and her glossed lips part. Her tongue darts quickly over her top lip before she takes a sip of her wine. When I turn to Christian, he’s still looking at me—not at her at all. Yes! My inner goddess fist pumps the air. I am going to have words with Ms. Matteo.
“Ana, what do you want to do?” Christian murmurs, very clearly deferring to me.
“I like the deck idea.”
“Me, too.”
I turn back to Gia. Hey, lady, look at me, not him. I’m the one making the decisions on this. “I think I’d like to see revised drawings showing the bigger deck and pillars that are in keeping with the house.”
Reluctantly, Gia drags her greedy eyes away from my husband and smiles down at me. Does she think I’m not going to notice?
“Sure,” she acquiesces pleasantly. “Any other issues?”
Other than you eye-fucking my husband? “Christian wants to remodel the master suite,” I murmur.
There’s a discreet cough from the entrance to the great room. We three turn as one to find Taylor standing there.
“Taylor?” Christian asks.
